Dismantle the Sun
by Johnnydspiratequeen
Summary: John's final goodbye to Sherlock Holmes. Post-Reichenbach; Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden.


**Dismantle the Sun**

John Watson sat just feet from a deep hole in the earth, a well-worn piece of paper crumpled in his hands/ he swallowed. His throat ached. He tried not to think about that hole and how in a matter of minutes, it would swallow up everything. Everything. Sherlock.

His felt his left hand spasm against his thigh and he clenched it shut until his knuckles were white. It reminded him of the time before Sherlock, the time when his life was flat and nothing. He had thought himself miserable then but now he knew what it was like. He knew what it was to feel so alive that you can't help but laugh. He knew how it felt to have the brisk London air against his face as he jumped across rooftops. He knew how it felt to love someone so much that their absence left a permanent, gaping hole in his chest.

He pressed a hand to it subconsciously, wishing he could dig his chest open, prise apart his ribcage and put something inside, anything to stop the vast, aching emptiness. It was nearly time for him to speak and oh God, how could he? He unfolded the poem in his hands for the hundredth time, smoothing out the tear-stained page, only to fold it up again once he lost his resolve.

Sherlock would have laughed. _"A poem, John? Really." _Sentimental John Watson. "_You'll stay,"_ he thought, _"You'll stay and listen to it because you need to know." _

Mrs. Hudson touched his arm when she returned to her chair. His turn so soon? The world was moving too fast, far too fast and he was stuck, suspended and still trying to understand, still trying to accept that he was committing his best friend and the best part of his life to the ground.

He rose, his leg aching dully as he made his way to the front of Sherlock's-…to the front. He stood, not meeting the eyes of the few mourners who turned up. He stared down at the paper, at the words which bore the weight of his sorrow so well and couldn't do it. Not now. Not for anyone but Sherlock. He folded the paper back and tried to clear his throat.

"Thank you for coming," he began, his voice hoarse, "I had something prepared for today but I- I can't say it now. Sherlock was never one for poetry anyway." He attempted a smile but it felt wrong and quickly slipped. "I'll stick to the facts, shall I? The way he would have wanted it. Sherlock Holmes-…" he paused. His eyes were hot. He blinked them, "was the bravest, wisest, most infuriating man I've ever met. But he was a good man. The best. Too good for us all, it seems."

His voice broke and he took a moment to compose himself. "He was also an honest man and no one will ever convince me that he told me a lie." He didn't trust himself to go on. "Thank you," he said and swiftly returned to his seat, brushing his fingers under his damp eyes.

The service drew to a close and John watched in solemn silence as the body of Sherlock Holmes was lowered into the earth. He wanted to scream. It seemed like the greatest travesty, a mistake; Sherlock in the ground and not with John and he wished to God that he could join him. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into his coffin and disappear forever.

…

It was the evening of the following day when John returned to the cemetery. The sky hung dark and heavy with the promise of rain as he stood in front of the black marker with the gold letters and the fresh dirt. He kneaded his fingers into his tired eyes which hadn't seen a wink of sleep.

"I need to tell you now, Sherlock," he said finally as he pulled the wrinkled poem from his pocket. "I won't be okay until I do."

With a shuddering breath, he began:

"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead

Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,

Put crêpe bows around the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my north, my south, my east, my west,

My working week, my Sunday rest

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever

I was wrong."

The last word was cracked and weak like a whisper and John's tears blurred the writing. It didn't matter; the words were scribed on his heart.

"The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good."

A raw cry broke from his chest now, his shoulders beginning to shake. He knelt, and folding the poem, trapped it between a bouquet of roses and the headstone. He placed a hand on the stone and leaned his head against his arm. For a long moment, he simply allowed himself to cry, falling further apart with every desperate sob.

Sherlock watched with blurred eyes from where he hid, his body trembling with the need to pull John into his arms and never let him go. He stayed as John gathered himself to his feet and slowly turned to leave. When he was out of sight, Sherlock finally let himself gasp and stumble forward, his hand reaching out to touch the warmth John's had left behind.

He sank to his knees because his leaden heart dragged him there, hot tears burning tracks down his face. "John," a broken whisper. He curled against the back of the tombstone, huddling away from the pain of his own grief. It started to rain.


End file.
